A Lost Game
by ThomE.Gemcity-06
Summary: Patrick Jane didn't see any reason anymore, Red John was always three steps ahead of him, and he just wanted to be with his family again. Includes DEATH.


**a/n: Actions of suicide, but not in great detail; focuses more on the emotions.**

**Summary: **Patrick Jane didn't see any reason anymore, Red John was always three steps ahead of him, and he just wanted to be with his family again.

* * *

**A Lost Game**

His hand trembled around the gripped butt in his hand. It was obtuse to be scared of a piece of metal with tubing and springs; separately, they were harmless, relatively so; but together they created a death machine that could kill multiple persons with the twitch of a finger. A childhood incident involving guns had left a permanent impression in Patrick Jane's mentality. So, yes, this was something to be afraid of. Yes, he knew that he was around guns all day while in the CBI, but they were holstered and none were pointed in his direction- something for which he had been content with, but he didn't care about that now.

_something is not right with me  
something is not right with me  
something is not right with me  
how was I supposed to know_

He knew, obviously he knew. There was a gun in his hand and that said everything. Explained everything that was going through his grey matter, or maybe what was lost. That could be the only reason why he had a gun in his possession. He was surprised that it had taken him this long to come to this kind of conclusion, but he supposed that it had been the freshness of the trauma. The shock, denial, anger, self-depression, anger, anger, more depression, anger, fear, loneliness, acceptance, then it went revenge renvenge revenge revenge revenge revenge... that was the only thing that kept him on his feet. Especially when it was fresh, ripe.

_something is not right with me  
something is not right with me  
something is not right with me  
trying not to let it show_

But after years it was wearing and wearing and tearing him from the inside. It was the reason why he sat in his apartment in the dark, sipping tea long since gone cold. It was why every emotion that he produced was a facade, _he_ was a facade.

_something is not right with me  
something is not right with me  
something is not right with me_

It was why he was holding the gun right now. Why he was in the master bedroom of the house where Red John killed his wife and child. Why was he in the dark, on the floor, leaning against the wall that his wife and child were killed under, the happy face of blood that was a mixture of them both. He believed that it was the best place to end it; where they ended and then they'd join in the same place as well.

_patch into the people who are sleeping late into the evening  
reach behind they can hardly find their spine  
patch into the people who are sleeping late into the evening  
reach behind they can hardly find their spine  
patch into the people who are sleeping late into the evening  
reach behind they can hardly find their spine_

He hardly ever slept, every time he closed his eyes he'd see his girls' bodies covered in blood. The darkness wasn't a good thing for him, the light- the sun- kept away everything most of the time. No, that was a lie. Nothing kept them at bay, nothing Red John ever did stayed in the dark for too long. Maybe he's developed a fondness to the dark in order to get a feel for the monster, to catch him and be able to take revenge- to make him suffer like Patrick suffers.

Patrick was being selfish on the part that he wanted revenge instead of avenge. They were quite nearly the same thing though. They both entailed a punishment, except one is done retaliation (for a selfish reason) and the other is done because of a wrong doing (done unto someone else). The latter of which he should be taking, Angela and Charlotte should not be dead this current day, if anything should have happened when he come home that Day in the past, it should have been his body instead of theirs. But Red John was sick and he liked games, and Patrick had played for years now and he was done.

He could be called spineless for this, for 'giving-up' as it were. But it took more guts to take your life than to live it, Patrick was learning this right now. He would have liked to have been drunk for this, but he didn't want to go into the afterlife with his daughter, drunk.

So he took a deep breath in the dark and lifted the gun to his temple. He could think of many more sophisticated and cleaner ways to do this, but maybe this was somehow poetic. His hand was trembling and jerking the gun so he just rested the muzzle against his temple. The metal was cool against his clammy skin and it burned hot.

_something is not right with me  
something is not right with me  
something is not right with me_

He pulled back the hammer. His finger quivered on the trigger as the muscles in his fingers strained as he pushed down.

_I'm trying not to let it show_

At least now he didn't have to fake anything anymore.

0-0

* * *

An impossible situation, I know. I can never see Jane giving up on his mission to kill Red John.


End file.
